


The Only Available Seat

by lockedin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Chair Sex, Clothed Sex, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fingerfucking, Fluff, Frottage, M/M, Riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-14
Updated: 2012-09-14
Packaged: 2017-11-14 04:50:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/511495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221b/pseuds/lockedin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It had been six days since they wrapped up their last big case, and the amount of evidence boxes in 221B from the extensive research hadn’t dwindled in the slightest... John’s patience had run out.</i><br/>...<br/><i>So John took the one comfortable spot left to him: Sherlock’s chair.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Only Available Seat

**Author's Note:**

> Based off/inspired by **[this](http://doublenegativemeansyes.tumblr.com/post/29679499322/s-you-are-on-my-sofa-j-so)** gorgeous piece by [doublenegativemeansyes](http://doublenegativemeansyes.tumblr.com) on tumblr.
> 
> Thanks to the ever lovely [Meg](http://archiveofourown.org/users/megg33k) for being my consulting smut editor.

It had been six days since they wrapped up their last big case, and the amount of evidence boxes in 221B from the extensive research hadn’t dwindled in the slightest. John had already put their various contents back—books, diaries, letters, photographs—and sealed them up. The deal was he would do that boring bit, as Sherlock would view it once the case was finished, and all Sherlock had to do with bring them back to the Yard. After half a week had passed since John taped up the last box, they were still collecting dust, and John’s patience had run out.

He wasn’t prepared to give in quite yet, though. Oh, he was tired of squeezing his laptop into the small rectangle of space left on the table, towers of cardboard looming over him. But it was like rearing a child: if he just up and did Sherlock’s task for him, Sherlock would keep refusing to do his share of mundanities. So John took the one comfortable spot left to him: Sherlock’s chair.

The chair was as old, worn, and snug as his own. Not the same, like putting on someone else’s gloves, but certainly comfortable. It had the added bonus of smelling faintly of Sherlock. The room was warm with cardboard and late spring, and the chair was cosy, so John peeled off his jumper, leaving him in a black tee. He curled up with his bare feet under him and his laptop on his knees and the arm of the chair, and started writing where he left off on the latest case.

John didn’t anticipate just how warm the leather would be, and in half an hour he was beginning to doze off as he posted the blog entry. He was contemplating a nap when the front door opened and Sherlock bounded up the stairs.

“Case?” John stifled a yawn.

Sherlock stared at him inquisitively. “You’re in my chair.”

“Once again, Sherlock Holmes observes the unobservable.” John smiled lazily. “So is there a case?”

“No.” Sherlock peeled off his jacket and draped it on the back of the wooden chair by the table. “Why are you in my chair?”

“Deduce,” John said. He closed his laptop and put it aside. Then he mimicked Sherlock’s usual steepling of the fingers under his chin and smiled across at him.

It only took a moment, and John didn’t even catch him looking around, before Sherlock said, “You’re upset about the boxes, aren’t you?”

John lowered his hands. “Four days since I finished packing everything back up. All you had to do was take a few trips to the Yard.”

“It must have slipped my mind.”

If it wasn’t Sherlock he was talking to, John wouldn’t have believed such an excuse. But mountains of boxes would be something this beautiful genius of his might forget about, despite it staring him in the face day after day. “I’m reminding you.”

“I’ll take care of it tomorrow.”

“And why not now?” God, it really was like dealing with a child.

Sherlock glanced at the nearest box with clear signs of frustration. Slight crease in the brow, small wrinkle in his nose. He was conflicted between wanting to appease John’s annoyance, and putting off the tedious task that it would take to achieve that conciliation. Maybe John couldn’t read people the way Sherlock could, but no one could read Sherlock like John could.

John threw him a bone and held out his hand. Sherlock crouched by the chair and pressed his cheek against the palm. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet you suffer me.” Sherlock turned his face until he captured John’s finger between his teeth.

“Hmph.” John pushed the pad of his foot against Sherlock’s chest, knocking the consulting detective on his rear. Sherlock left little red marks on John’s finger in return. “Oi!”

“See? Suffering.” He gave John one of his cockiest grins.

“The suffering can go both ways,” John huffed.

Sherlock raised a brow. “If you honestly think usurping my chair is going to cause me any suffering, you’re sorely mista- Ah!” The vowel stretched out and went up a pitch as John rubbed his toes just below the zipper of Sherlock’s trousers. He grabbed his foot and pulled it to the side. He went for John’s trousers, but John lifted his other leg over Sherlock’s arm and resumed his massage. Sherlock snatched his heel and tugged it away.

John leaned forward and grinned. He fingered the open collar of Sherlock’s black shirt. “But I,” he said, popping one button loose, “still have,” and another button, “both hands,” he freed a third, leaving only one left, “and the higher ground.” He nibbled at Sherlock’s jaw, licking and sucking the marks he left.

With an undignified growl, Sherlock released John’s left leg and reached up to grab his face. But John sat back, hooked his leg back over Sherlock’s arm, and kneaded the growing bulge with his the pad of his foot. He watched with an unabashed grin as Sherlock measured out his next move, trying desperately to think beyond the hardening erection trapped under both trousers and boxers.

John was convinced Sherlock would struggle a bit more, but instead he watched the arm trapped under his leg snake up to John’s trousers and fumble with the button and zip. It didn’t take long for those spindly fingers to do their work, and in a moment black cotton was all that remained between his own prick and Sherlock’s palm, now slowly rubbing life into it. John flushed and licked his lips. He reached out to Sherlock’s face again, and this time he pulled John’s finger between his lips and ran his tongue along the backside. John tried wriggling the tip into Sherlock’s mouth, but he bit down and the finger stilled.

“Oh for god’s sake,” Sherlock mumbled abruptly around John’s finger. He removed his hand from John and pushed his foot away again. This time, though, he only did it to undo his own trousers. He let out a sigh as the uncomfortable pressure over his erection was released. John toed his way back under his hand and pressed the curved of the bulge into the arch of his foot. Sherlock’s eyelids fell and he sucked John’s finger into his mouth.

He was interrupted when the weight of John’s foot disappeared and he felt John’s toes poking his stomach. He looked up, eyes sharp and annoyed. The affect was considerably less with his lips pursed tightly around John’s finger. “I’m not doing all the work,” John said. He tilted his head and leaned it on his hand, resting his elbow on the arm of the chair. “You’ve got to do your share.” He looked down pointedly at his crotch and back up at Sherlock. “In everything.”

Sherlock released John’s finger with a wet pop. He took his hand from the other foot and rocked onto his knees, pushing his stomach against John’s toes. Sherlock met his eyes as he hooked one nimble finger below the elastic waistband of John’s pants and pulled it down below his bollocks. He ran the tip of his tongue between his lips and John inhaled sharply. His foot fell to the floor and Sherlock stood and pushed down his trousers and pants. He climbed onto the chair and straddled John’s hips with his knees.

John reached up and wrapped his hands around the back of Sherlock’s neck and head, jerking him forward to crush their mouths together. As their tongues wrestled, Sherlock slithered his hand between them and gathered John’s cock against his own. John moaned into his mouth and threw his head back, but Sherlock bent with him and kept his lips firmly attached. John’s hands moved down Sherlock’s chest, undoing the sole remaining button, and he ran his fingers across nipples and sparse dark hair, down ribs to hips and around to buttocks. He gave them a good squeeze, causing Sherlock to press harder against him, before brushing his fingers along the cleft. Sherlock shivered against him and rubbed their cocks together with a bit more vigour.

As they panted into each other’s mouths, foreheads pressed against one another, John drew a finger along Sherlock’s perineum and said breathily, “God, what I’d give for some lube right now.”

Sherlock let go of their pricks and grabbed the back of the chair while he leaned back and stretched his arm out to his jacket. He fished inside and retrieved a one-use packet of lube. He pulled himself back and presented it to John.

John gawped at him. “Do you just carry lube around with you wherever?”

“Always be prepared, John,” Sherlock replied with an overly serious tone.

John snatched the packet from him and twisted the fingers of his other hand in Sherlock’s hair, tugging him back down for another rough kiss. Sherlock’s hand slid back to their erections, mixing and smoothing drops of pre-ejaculate across both their glans. John released his handful of black curls and tore open the packet. He coated his fingers and wrapped one hand below Sherlock’s and slid the others between his buttocks to his tight anus.

Sherlock folded his fingers around John’s and pumped their cocks with the smaller, slicked-up hand under his, leaving John to focus on his arse. He braced his other hand on the back of the chair, and when John had put a second finger in he sat back on it and began grinding his hips and cock against John’s, fucking himself on his fingers. He looked down to find John staring at him, eyes large and dark.

He only paused to allow John a third finger inside him. Then he pushed the other hand from their cocks and took full control, rubbing the two shafts together as he searched for the right angle on John’s hand. When John twisted his fingers and brushed Sherlock’s prostate, Sherlock shivered and froze for a moment. They were both breathing hard, drenched with sweat and sticking to each other and the leather of the chair.

Sherlock lifted off of John’s fingers and shuddered as they slide out. He moved up John’s chest, and John slid his pelvis forward. He grasped Sherlock’s hips as he lowered onto John’s cock, pushing down with tortuous, delicious slowness.

“Oh god,” John groaned as Sherlock at last situated himself firmly in John’s lap.

Sherlock gripped the back of the chair with both hands and started to rock. John squirmed and thrust into him. Sherlock stopped, and John gaped. Sherlock leaned in and whispered, “No, no, John. I’ve got to pull my weight, don’t I?” He sat back up and rammed himself onto John. John gasped and dug his fingers into Sherlock’s hips.

But that wasn’t the only hard thrust Sherlock inflicted on them both. He pounded his arse into John’s lap repeatedly. He moved his hands to the arms of the chair and arched his back, rocking hard as John began to lose control of his own body. His hips twitched and bucked as he moaned Sherlock’s name over and over until he practically screamed it. Sherlock clenched his arse and slid off John completely. That final pressure carried John over and he came across the inside of Sherlock’s thighs, and a bit on his own pelvis and shirt.

Sherlock waited for John to catch his breath and collect some of his senses. When John opened his eyes, he found Sherlock’s prick staring him in the face. He stared at it a moment, looked down at his messed shirt, tugged it off, and wiped the lube from Sherlock’s cock and his own hands. He tossed the shirt aside and ringed the base of the shaft, kissing the slit and pointing his tongue against it. Sherlock practically trembled for release. John wrapped his lips around the glans and sucked it into his mouth. He grabbed Sherlock’s thigh with his free hand, trailing in the mess as he twirled his tongue around the edge of the taught foreskin and pulled the ringed fingers back and forth. Sherlock gripped his shoulders and John readied himself for the warm ejaculate that washed through his mouth and down his throat, a loud low moan above him.

He swallowed and pulled Sherlock onto his lap. The leather was uncomfortable against his bare skin, but he didn’t pay it too much mind for the time being. Sherlock slumped against him, and John turned his head to seek out Sherlock’s lips. They latched together again, mixing saliva and ejaculate in the space between their mouths.

Sherlock peeled his legs from the leather and curled up in John’s lap with his cheek on John’s bare shoulder. John combed through his black curls and murmured, “You owe me a new shirt.”

“Mhm,” came the lazy reply, which he felt vibrate against his skin.

“And you still have to take care of the boxes.” There was an incoherent grumble from the man on top of him. John just laughed and wrapped his arms about Sherlock, hugging him close.


End file.
